What's a human being?

What is human? An ill-conceived idea of a god?  A mistaken thought of a cultural necessity, necessitated in-turn for the existence of civilization? An individual is at the root of this creation, yet he is the one who has been given the least credit for it.  All that human is, a mere representation of mass, the real symbol of existence, of life.  Yet mass itself is the lowest a human idea can get to. A mass is mad, unthoughtful, bestial, uncivilized bulk, where the worst of every human being comes together, and creates the worst of all en masse.And this world is a crowd.  Mad, bestial uncivilized bulk. Where does human come into picture then? This transition from being a part of an uncivilized bulk to a complete, self fulfilled individual is something remarkable which a human being, keeps making innumerable times in its life time.

A killer on the street!

To kill the time, a killer was devised. It walked on the sheets, a jagged course mostly, billowing, at times. Surprisingly, the path took by the killer, took shapes, unexplained and unclear, yet a definite shape. Some of it seemed to resemble a pawn’s first half, while other part would be the depiction of a ragged hill or perhaps, a broken wall.  The killer kept moving on and on and on, and the marks of his steps checkered the entire landscape, but he never arrived anywhere, just in transit, from one infinity to another one, and yet not finishing . It took long, before it was realized that while he walked he killed something in turn, destroyed something in turn and let two forces of world unite., The man and his soul. When the two united, the letters stopped, so did his course over the sheet and he raised his head with a jolt of an abruptly terminating dream, and that, which had been one, was found now in splinters around his body, while his pen and the sheet lay intact!

As we cross it

Every movement across the road conjures in me the images of a mutilated self of mine, crushed by the speeding vehicle, on its free ride. Whose fault, had it been? It wouldn’t matter enough, when such a situation arrives, all that would remain is a torn mass of flesh and bones, bearing the semblance of having remained attached together  some time. Despite the rush, I save myself, every day from those speeding motors wagons, and stay together, and yet witness myself being torn in pieces, by the speeding vehicles of unknown rash drivers, they are difficult to be pictured, yet in a bent and unique shape they do come, ripping me apart, and yet leaving my flesh intact. Something gets torn on every such occasion, yet not visible to me. Perhaps, the accident kills in bits and pieces, and perhaps the day when the kill is final, will I realize it in this practical world. What else would I do till then, other than keep crossing the road with same union of saving myself, lest some vehicle, of a cavalier driver rips me or something called me, apart!

Dreams!

Dreams are made of stuffs  sold on streets. Days when desolation has afflicted one, dream's world  would be as clear as a story woven craftily, by the greatest of raconteurs, pleating the vicissitudes of life in proper places.

The run of the dream leaves one exhausted, eaten up by something. With open eyes, there is no reason to budge, no motivation to live.

But, the days that have been happy, dreams are confused, lacking any particular course. As if, multiples strands of dream are chasing each other in different directions and none of it becomes clear. This chase, however, doesn’t eat one up, but rather gives one a sense of purpose, to chase randomness, to chase the world. The dreams, are made of the stuffs sold in markets, and they get exhausted, get old or plain irrelevant. What remains then is nothing but the days of different dreams, made of surreptitious desires lying hidden in the dark corners during the day, playing havoc at night!

Sunny Days

All Sundays are sunny; perhaps that is why they are called so. The deception however, lies in the exception that pops one or other winter day, when clouds cover thickly the landscape below, and the Sun languishes behind it. Yet, the “pheriwala” doesn’t make exceptions. He is there every Sunday with the same shout of, " Paper! Paper!" As If Sundays are  the paper days.

The kitchen after dinner

When the food is over, what gets left behind is the faint idea of hunger, soiled plates and utensils, and a tip tap of the kitchen sink. The drip continues whole night, and when you visit it, it mocks you on your face, at the sight of animal in the man, which devoured the hunger of self and ate everything up. The kitchen, stares at you, for having exploited it for ones petty want of hunger. You get scared, a bit apologetic too, but as this sense of sorriness starts sinking in and reaches  enough depth,the  man rises back. It condescends at them, turns around and switches off the light. The hunger had been defeated and so has been the self-apologetic human.

Pain of Ego

And the noise of celebrations around the corner broke his dreams. Just as his own , theirs had been a restricted, compromised pathway to life, and now they have left him behind. Everyday, someone or other leaves someone else behind, and yet that didn't budge him enough, but today, his neighbors, the people who drew same breath as his, shared same soil and fate as his had left him behind. Till this day , they  were together in their fate, and that perhaps made them all feel safe, but as now one has moved ahead, all others are backwards, and this has stolen his content.
He will have to renew his fight now, and bring  people on to his boat. People , who he could look at and say, "why am I with them?" Amidst the chaos of chasing peace he forgot one essential thing. That thing was his ego. His self that had been hurt, and he felt the pain too, yet renamed it with something else. The ego is still  hurt, and it still seeks solace from the depravity of expedient choices, yet he doesn't have enough of something to listen to the blaring echoes of its pain.

In suffering

In suffering lies  understanding of the object. Only when  the night has suffered with darkness, does it love the morning dear, and when the day has suffered  the heat of the blistering sun, it knows the love of night. Frustration is the seed of love that grows into a plant of such kind that one can never find created in happiness. Pausing at every step, if you could realize the suffering of the moment, you will love life. When you will find that the life is the suffering of the self, you will love life. This unites the soul to the supreme, through several channels, yet never different in its end. Looking at the means, with a mild nonchalance, an attaching oneself to it you would find, what you have been in search of.

Transformed

Amidst different pathways on offer , he chose the brightest one. The dazzle of the road ahead left him in awe of it. The rush was spontaneous, lacking  thought, yet not as blinded as an animal’s chase of fodder.  On the way he found a well lying by the side of the glittering road, dark, desolate and rickety. He was thirsty, yet not enough to bring himself to drink out of that well, and with the pace he was moving the well was soon past him.  After having run another ten miles he found an inn by the side of the road. The inn was rather a hut, inhabited by a harridan lady, shouting out orders to the workers around her. All of them were busy cleaning the land. With the sun having come over his head now, the sweat beads glittered on their swarthy bodies.  He felt thirsty now, more so after looking at them. Yet again, he couldn’t allow himself to get to them. He sped past them as well. And so on , along the way he found similar things, but couldn’t get himself to drink anywhere. By the time, he had been almost exhausted; he couldn’t find any more sources of water by the side of road.

He had almost reached a different place, where perhaps water was not a concern. In search he started digressing from Main Street to the villages by the side, but he could nowhere find water.  A sudden change happened to him later, thirst of water was killed by the same extremity of thirst. He sat down by the side of the road, and began to think. The thirst has been killed, and yet I am still alive. I ought to be killed too, but death didn’t approach him. A faint fear loomed over his head and he collapsed, when he woke, he no longer felt the fear of things around. No thirst found way to his throat, and he turned to the villages around, becoming one with them, perhaps waiting for another human to come some day and see him transform.

Into my death.

It is when I am mad with feverish energy, I realize that I am to be something different than what I am. Fever rushes through the head, and mind overthrows all the bindings on it. Wide expanse of free earth beckons me in her arms, and the sky above comes down to my level and consecrates me as the king of the heavens.And then, I walk through the space, the sky and the earth, with the madness playing itself on my head. I lose all the sense of people buzzing around me, busy with their chores, their slavery of spirit. I pull the curtains over my head, and pull down my eyes, yet I cannot stop seeing. Images, in varying shapes, floating around me, as if playing truly around me. I do not know, if this is the consequence of being feverish, but the vividness with which the images float around me, I sink in myself. What plays around me , however soon gets muffled with the images of love. The lady, the love, the infinity, the end. A sound erupts her name blasphemously and the vow is broken. Tears well up in eyes and all the images start floating in it. I begin losing myself, to sleep some may say, but I prefer the Otherland, the Neverland. From deep into the corner of my heart, a fairy plays its symphony in front of my fastened eyes, and I descend into her land, into her joy , into her peace. Into my death.

Quote

There are two kinds of death, one of it is called life!

इंतज़ार में चाँद

रोज़ मैं देखूं , चाँद खड़ा है,रस्ता मेरा देख रहा है|
फैलाए तारों की चादर, इकटक मुझको घूर रहा है|


मैं पूछूं, क्यों री चंदा, मुझमें क्या तेरा धरा है?
आते जाते , पीछे पड़े, क्या लाज शर्म को त्याग चुका है?
बरसाके  चांदनी का क्षीर , तारों के बीच राजा बना है!


चंदा बोला:

You Middle Class!

During those golden days of past, we had so many workers at home, whom we would play around with. They would take us around to places of varied locality, and also gave us the freedom from our parents’ watchful eyes. The mirth, the joy of childhood, which I could only yearn for, but never achieve through any amount of money that I will possibly earn in my life, is filled with the instances of such people. I faintly, but surely remember the “malaiwaalah” that used to turn up to our house every Saturday and Sunday, knowing that we would be around and would surely pester our parents to get “malai”. The “hawa mithaiwaallah “ too followed the routine, and all of them so beautifully created the their own space in my decorated childhood, interspersed with memories of great simplicity. They themselves  appeared in torn and wretched clothes, but never did their goods appear to degrade in taste, the taste that still sits atop my tongue, and could never be matched by any cuisine. Ah! The beauty of such memories drenches me in this sweetness. The gratitude and the generosity of these men in my life is something that will always light up my life.

Natural and Artificial

Natural and artificial . These two groups are worth revisiting. What is natural ? That which comes of its own? Like  trees, waterfalls, forests, animals. But what is artificial? Anything that man creates and is supposedly not " in consonance with existing order". Why , it seems, ranging from a pin to a leviathan , are all artificial. All of these have been created by application of human minds.
But , does that mean , our mind is the seat of artificial things?

Our Death!

Thus there would be deaths,
 In millions and billions,
But tell me O you!
Whence has death preceded life?

Man may tower the pinnacles of success,
 Yet he is nothing more than a death of death!


Look at this man!
He is scared of death!
He didn’t know, what was he thinking when he had life!

In the womb he lay, breathing or not breathing!
And now, he THINKS, thinks he is dying!

बातें !!

तुम  क्या हो? मासूम, नटखट, बचपन की  छाया , या चतुर, चालाक  , जीवन की निर्वाहिका !  तुममें हंसी रुकी भी नहीं छुपी भी नहीं| आँखों में शरारत है, कि मासूमियत  ? कुछ होने या न होने के दायरे में तुम कहीं बसी हुई हो, ठहरी हुई तो नहीं, पर दूर भी नहीं|

Twilight's haunt!

Why am I so scared,
when It's not dark as yet.


Sneaking through the window,
is the twilight's eery crescendo.


Silence is deafening,
and the brightness , sickening.


The heart goes bleaker,
the promise grows weaker.

रात की और सुबह की ...

रात के कुछ पल बीते ही थे कि सुबह की दस्तक आ गयी,

आँखों में कटी  या साँसों में , रात तो सुबह में घुल गयी | 

पर अब तक रात खामोश सी थी , सुबह का शोर सुनने को,

ये रात मदहोश ही थी, सुबह तक होश होने को|

रात तो बस रात ही है, अँधेरा सिर्फ मन या रौशनी का नहीं,

सुबह पर सब कुछ है, सवेरा मन  का भी, सिर्फ रौशनी का ही नहीं|

ज्यूं रात बदल गयी है , सुबह में,

में भी बदल जाऊँगा अगले पल में|

The palette of heaven

How did the sky color itself in blood today!
Look there in west, its orange,crimson and other ruddy ways.


One could none but wonder at this palette of heaven,
Whites in bunch, blue in abundance and red sprinkled uneven.


That crown of king shines crimson red,
And follows its procession behind, bathed in white drape.


Glorious is the beautiful sprawl of orange flavor up there,
one could not help but gaze at those shaded bundle of uneven clouds,
shaded in red glare.

To Him!

And this is another Sunrise,
Not yet the morning bright.


The darkness of night  defeated,
But darkness of dreams stays bright.


There perhaps is no meaning of this day-birth today,
There had been no meaning since the Time had had its sway.


To kill Time, I pen my words,
But, to kill the Self, no sword has been cast yet.


For only when this constricted self departs,
Will there be the birth of Universal Man.